Last night I slept with don pancho

Located 7,000 feet above sea level in the highlands of south western Mexico, it was first settled in the 1500’s and was best known as the hub for Zapatista rebels who seized the town’s city hall in 1994 and held off the Mexican army until their demands for human rights and land reform were heard.

The town’s cobblestone streets were filled as always with memorabilia of Sub Commandante Marcos, statues of the Virgin of Guadeloupe (often depicted wearing a rebel bandana over her face) and indigenous Tzotzil Maya women in rainbow-coloured richly embroidered blouses and black woollen skirts.

My plans didn’t go as planned. Once in Mexico, heavy rains washed away many of the mountain passes and armed gangs blocked the main highway in Guatemala, robbing and assaulting travelers. While waiting for the situation to calm down, I visited shrines to the Virgin of Guadeloupe by day and suffered through the hotel mariachi band’s endless renditions of “Hotel California,” by night.

By the end of two weeks, I was ready for a break. The highway situation hadn’t improved but I craved anonymity. A solo woman in a Latino town stands out at the best of times, and I’d worsened the situation by amassing a following of scrawny stray dogs, that followed me up and down the cobblestone streets while I fed them from a large bag of kibble that I refilled each morning from the bulk bin at the tienda. Evenings, the pooches got real food, thanks to food scraps that I stashed in a large, smelly baggie. Recently the locals had begun pointing out even more needy hounds, and I was feeling like a canine version of the Pied Piper.

Worse, I suspected I was being spied on. The hotel clerks, whom I’d originally considered very solicitous, seemed to have become vigilante chaperones. Privy to the conversations I had on the hotel’s one phone in the lobby, they were intent upon preserving my honour for whenever my esposo (husband) and I would be reunited. Each evening they took turns grilling me on where I was going. One night, they caught me sneaking past the front desk after midnight to go to a movie and took particular glee in advising that he’d called. Javier just laughed, saying I was causing a scandal.

We had long ago worked out a happy truce in our relationship that accommodated my long absences for travel. Our arrangement stipulated that he didn’t call the authorities until he hadn’t heard from me for a minimum of 3 days. If I was headed into territory where there was no email, I’d give him a heads-up so he didn’t worry.

Although the arrangement worked for us, his family still thought it was all very puzzling. Mama Tallo, a feisty woman in her own right, worried about my propensity to travel around the world to what seemed like obscure places.

“Watch out for el barbudo (the bearded one),” she once warned, referring to Osama bin Laden, when I headed alone to Vietnam. If a plane crashed anywhere in the world, she was convinced I’d been on the flight and would fret until she was called.

So while I understood the hotel staff’s intensions, they were making me crazy. Finally, when I was nabbed having coffee with an Italian male backpacker and jumped like a high school teenager caught making out on her parents’ basement couch, I knew it was time to move on. Turning down repeated offers from Javier’s brothers, who wanted to form a posse and rescue me, I had scanned the map for a place to hang out until the road situation improved.

Inspiration arrived in the form of Na Balom, a museum and guesthouse at the edge of town. Built in the nineteenth century, the museum was the home of Swiss anthropologist Franz Blom and his photographer wife, Trudy, in the 1950s. Now dedicated to preserving the Lacandón culture and advocating preservation of the rainforest, it is full of anthropological relics, faded photos, and lush gardens. Among those exhibits, I discovered that the Lacandón were a matriarchal society. My previous impression of early Mesoamerican society had been that it was a predominantly male-oriented culture, with females confined to being sacrificial maidens or crones. But here among the archives, I learned of female deities, powerful warriors who played important roles on battlefields, in the underworld, and during childbirth. An entry in an archeologist’s diary even reported fantastical tales of women nursing dogs. More recent accounts told of the tomb of a warrior queen—known as the Red Queen, due to the red cinnabar covering her sarcophagus—discovered in 1994. Considered one of the richest tombs ever found, it captured my imagination and inspired me to take a six-hour bus ride east into the jungle to learn more.

Soon, I was standing at the edge of a forest, buying a bow and arrow from a long-haired Lacondon man in a white tunic.

“Use this one for puerco (pig),” he explained, carefully drawing a yellow-feathered arrow out of the quiver, “and this one for venado (deer).”

Although it was unlikely that I’d need to shoot my own dinner, I listened carefully to his instructions. It was hard not to like him. He was Lacandón, a member of one of North America’s last surviving tribes of forest-dwellers. Residing deep in the jungle bordering Mexico and Guatemala, they have been retreating further and further into their diminishing rainforest preserve in the face of increasing urbanization. Of course, it’s hard to be militant when there are only six hundred of you left.

Most people don’t have an opportunity to meet a Lacandón unless they take a bone-jarring two-day trip down a dirt highway, canoe across a parasite-infested lagoon, and then hike a half day into Sierra del Lacandón National Park to one of their communities. Otherwise, the Lacandón are most often seen when they come to town to trade.

Palenque, a dusty town best known for its Mayan ruins, was one of those trading centers. I’d arrived at its ruins early, before the tourist buses. The Lacandón looked desperate for business and had only one product for sale: the handcrafted bow and arrow. Being the first sale of the day, I got the equipment—plus full instructions on stalking and capturing wild game—all for the bargain price of twenty-five pesos (about $3).

“Ready to go?” he asked, dismantling the arrows, feathers, quivers, and bow. Wrapping it up in brown paper as capably as a butcher at a Piggly Wiggly store, he handed it over and pointed to a path in the jungle.

Armed with my bundle, but feeling more Friar Tuck than Robin Hood, I headed off alone into the rainforest—on a quest to learn more about the Red Queen of Palenque. Within a few moments, I found myself alone on the trail far away from the main entrance to the park. The morning mist had lifted, but the rainforest was still dark with shadows. The trail was soft as felt underfoot, thanks to a blanket of decomposed vegetation and fallen leaves. My photocopied map indicated that the Red Queen’s tomb was near the Great Plaza, which was where I believed I was headed.

Although the ruins of Palenque are well known on the archeological group-tour circuit, the entire site stretches across sixty-five square kilometres. Rising out of a fertile plateau in eastern Chiapas, its lush rainforest borders the Maya Biosphere Reserve, a vast tropical jungle that stretches into northern Guatemala, Belize, and the southern Yucatán. Home to a broad diversity of plant, bird, and mammal species, vast sections of it are still undiscovered. Over a decade ago, it sheltered members of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, who seized control of San Cristóbal de las Casas in a 1994 uprising. In recent years, although the Zapatistas had reached an uneasy peacetime truce, the jungle’s remoteness still presented dangers of its own. Further south, the El Peten region had even been the location for the reality series Survivor: The Mayan Empire.

Hiking along, oblivious to the vastness of the jungle surrounding me, I heard what sounded like a freight train derailing. It burst from the trees with a roar, shook the skies, and then subsided. The forest that had seemed so peaceful initially now seemed ominous. The trail that had been well trodden when I started out now looked overgrown and unused and I realized I hadn’t seen anyone for over an hour. Picking up my pace and walking at a speed just short of a run, I remembered that during Guatemala’s civil war decades earlier, Javier’s father had been kidnapped by guerrillas in El Peten.

Although the risk was low that I myself would be snatched by guerrillas, there was definitely potential to be robbed by thugs. Plus, it was getting hotter and the humidity was building. Realizing my map was not drawn to scale, I began to think that my tomb-hunting plan had been more foolhardy than adventurous. I had no idea how much farther it would be.

Despite my growing fear, I was also annoyed. I seemed to have a propensity for poor judgment. This wasn’t the first time I had found myself in a predicament. On my hunt for rare blue jade in the Sierra de las Minas mountains, I’d spent much of my time sliding down canyons in rivers of mud.

Although I’d never had a serious mishap, I realized that, far from being a warrior queen/explorer, I was just an idiot with an overactive imagination. I had no water, no compass, or any other supplies. Plus, the bundle of arrows I was lugging under my sweaty armpit had become a liability. I was more apt to fall on an arrow than shoot any dinner or attacker with it.

Suddenly, the roaring sound increased and the trees started rustling around me. It was now almost directly overhead.

That did it. I turned tail and started running back the way I had come. Vines entangled in the undergrowth seemed intent on tripping me. The noise of my hasty retreat drowned out any sounds shadowing me.

Out of breath, I reached a fork in the path and, unable to remember my original route, chose the trail on the left. Within minutes, I could see glimmers of sunlight through the foliage. Soon a wide expanse of grass, punctuated by large ceiba trees, materialized. An armed security guard sat resting on a rock at the end of the jungle path, smoking.

“Howler monkeys,” he said, pointing back at the woods and distant noise. “Lots of them. They don’t like visitors.”

Behind him rose the ruins of Palenque. First occupied in 100 bc, it flourished as a center for Mayan religion and commerce between 620 ad and 740 ad. In total there were over 1,500 buildings, only a third of which have been excavated. The tallest, the Temple of the Inscriptions, emerged out of the foothills of the jungle cliffs like an eight-layer wedding cake. Nearby would be Temple 13, the tomb of the Red Queen. Taking a deep breath and cooling off with a splash of water, I headed across the expansive clearing to begin exploring.

Archeological accounts of the discovery of the Red Queen’s tomb report that a badly preserved skeleton belonging to a thirteen-year-old boy was found at the extreme western end of the sarcophagus. One of its main features was cranial deformation—deliberately flattened heads were considered a sign of beauty in Mayan times. A second skeleton, that of a woman who had died at the age of thirty, was also discovered. Both individuals had been sacrificed to accompany the Red Queen on her journey to the underworld.

Inside the vaulted burial chamber itself, the Red Queen was discovered lying on her back with her face covered in a jade mask. She wore a belt of three small limestone axes and carried an obsidian blade in her hand. Her age at the time of her death was between forty and forty-five years old. Her body was covered heavily with a red dust that was identified as cinnabar. Today, the sarcophagus is a simple rectangular limestone box that is tucked behind a vaulted Mayan arch and protected from present-day looters by a frame of iron bars. Although its interior is still stained by the blood-red dust, the tomb’s treasures have been removed for safekeeping. Some temples at Palenque have snakelike ventilation ducts to assist the soul in its passage to the underworld, but the walls of this tomb seemed oppressive, and I could stay only a few moments in the fetid, moist air before I had to hurry back out into the sun.

Outside, I took a seat on a crumbling piece of temple wall that emerged from an unexcavated mound behind the ruins. Moisture rose from the vegetation that enveloped the gray stones deep in the shade, and the sunlight revealed walls splattered with bat guano. When night fell, bats would leave their dens in large, swooping flocks.

I tried to imagine life here over one thousand years ago. Who was the boy who was sacrificed? Was he related to the Red Queen? What did she die of? Perhaps more of her story would be unraveled in future excavations. Although my quest for the Red Queen had resulted in more questions than answers, I’d at least had a glimpse into her life. I’d also gained an appreciation of Palenque’s splendor and its role in Mayan culture, whose influence has endured to modern times. I’d also learned that perhaps each of us is a warrior in our own way. Despite shortcomings in planning, my solo expedition had been a worthwhile foray. I’d plunged into the unknown and emerged intact.

Later, as I returned to the main gate to catch a bus back to town, I spotted my Lacandón friend in the white tunic. He was encouraging a German backpacker to take a trek into the Lacandón forest. The backpacker was tempted but still concerned about safety.

“Should you decide to go,” I offered, “I do have a bow and arrow you can use.”

Back in San Cristobal, I stopped to visit Dona Rosalia, the elderly duena (owner) of the Blue Moon Hostel. I’d been intrigued by descriptions of her cooking lessons which claimed to offer “special powers.”

She was working the front desk – simultaneously checking a backpacker out of his room, dealing with a tortilla vendor and answering the phone. That didn’t stop her from giving me the low down on the cooking class. Eight hours of lessons cost 450 pesos – a small fortune considering my room was only 150 pesos – but included a market visit. Dona Rosalia assured me there would be plenty of herbal remedies and special recipes to take home.

“We can begin immediately,” she said stepping out from behind the desk. Although her clothes, hair and apron looked as though she had been dipped in grey flour, her eyes were alert shiny flints. She hauled a man, who I assumed was her husband as he’d been dozing guilt-free in a nearby hammock, to take her place at the desk.

Her philosophy on how to achieve optimum health was fourfold she explained as we headed into her kitchen. It included eating well, the use of herbal medicine, frequent relaxation and the most important, the care and maintenance of sexual organs.

“Huh?” thinking I’d lost something in the Spanish translation.

She nodded her head and pointed to her groin with a sharp jabbing motion.

“All are achievable through the kitchen” she assured me with a determined look that suggested hard labour rather than languid afternoons between sheets.

With an intensity worthy of a sommelier from the swankiest French restaurant, she began explaining how herbal drinks could be paired like fine wine to complement a meal and aid in digestion and sexual vigor. She pointed to areas south of her waist again in case I’d forgotten.

I had my doubts on the efficacy of her recipes based on her appearance -- which was more Julia Child than Nigella Lawson. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard of the libidinous merits of folk drinks. In Honduras amid the dust and exhaust of a highway roadstand, I’d tried atol de elote -- a fermented corn concoction that tasted like Jolly Green Giant cream corn mixed with cheap vodka and made me retch after just one sip. In Jamaica, I’d sampled “Johnny Stand–up Stiff” – an herbal aphrodisiac. It also made me retch. Both drinks were emergency tonics akin to viagra in a glass. I’d never heard of an entire culinary philosophy focused on boosting sexual vigor.

Dona Rosita began my introduction with damiana, an herb that women on Mexico’s Pacific coast pick from a wild shrub. The leaves are infused in hot water to make tea.

“Some mothers even wrap it in chocolate as gifts for their son-in-laws,” she explained. I had sampled Damiana, a brilliant yellow liqueur sold in a bottle shaped like voluptuous naked woman, at the Four Seasons Punta Mita. It had been sweet and heady – perfect for a sultry tropical night. This weedy bundle looked quite different.

Dona Rosita stuffed the branches into an aluminum pot on the stove, poked the bundle for a few minutes and then poured the pale liquid into my mug.

“It loosens inhibitions and frees up sexual desire,” she explained.

“And brings new meaning to the concept of the naked chef?” I mused examining my mug surreptitiously. I was more worried whether the water had been boiled long enough rather than whatever wonton behavior might be unleashed.

Dona Rosita’s kitchen was – without doubt - the dirtiest, most filthy food preparation area I’d ever seen. Dried carcasses of cockroaches lay scattered around the flour bins like chile peppers and dmouse droppings polka-dotted the tile floor. How I’d be able spend eight hours there and worse yet, eat the food, I shuddered to imagine.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I didn’t have to worry. For much like the mouse droppings, by midnight that night I lay on the floor of my bathroom at the hotel in the throes of what turn out to be three days of food poisoning.

I couldn’t blame Dona Rosita. I had fake-sipped the damiana and we’d run out of time to hit the market, so we’d agreed to resume the lessons the next morning. I’d headed to a backpacker cafe where in a celebratory mood -- as though I’d cashed in a get-out-of-jail-free card-- I’d enjoyed a pineapple liquado and chicken in cream sauce.

By midnight, I was hugging my stomach and riding spasms of vomiting. Although I didn’t get the opportunity to learn the full secrets to culinary and sexual bliss from Dona Rosita, I did learn something. Although I’d always known that food was a way to a man’s heart, I didn’t know that its efficacy also applied to body parts further south.

It also dawned upon me that if Dona Rosita, with all her failings in the sanitation department, could run a thriving cooking school there was no reason Thelma and I couldn’t make a go of our baking school idea.

Chapter 23: These boots were made for working

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